Pale
by geegagerna97
Summary: "I am destiny's most lethal weapon."
1. Chapter I (Bound for the Block)

PALE

CHAPTER I

BOUND FOR THE BLOCK

{ASTRID'S POINT OF VIEW}

If I am dead, I do not know it.

And if I'm alive, I certainly don't know that either.

 _Caught between the land of life and death slumps a girl with sullen blue eyes, greasy brown hair, and a sunken face. Sagging, she is limp. Tired. Hungry. Hasn't eaten in a little over five days and is wearing nothing but a gown stained red with her own culpability. She is going down a road. Heading someplace finite. Someplace nonnegotiable. Someplace pale and cold and bleak and decided and irrevocable._

 _Someplace where they're going to take everything she has - from her head to her soul to her body to her breath - and strip it all away._

 _This girl will never be the same if she makes it. She will start her new life on the run. Or end it with a broken promise. Everything begins where everything ends, and today, this girl - eighteen with a buried dream - is ending._

I wake with a start.

In and out of consciousness, but now I breathe life. Pale blue eyes flutter open, and I see the world. A mist shrouds me; the land looks like a canvas. Painted in the faded color of the pines, the waning grey of the morning sky, the sharpness of pebbles beneath the wagon, and I jerk upward.

 _Bump, bump, bump._ I wince, followed by a shiver. It is cold, very cold, cold cold cold, and I can taste my own blood. Sweet, metallic. A sharp dagger, a new axe, a hot forge. It all feels like home. The coldness, the judgemental eyes, the blood, the feelings, the hurt. I ran away from something bad, into something worse. Something unknown. Something… isolated.

I am alone in a rumbling wagon, my insides shaken like my mother tosses her salads. (Bad imagery for someone who's starving.) But then I am startled by three men: two across from me, one by my side. Startled, but not scared.

I am never scared.

One is big and brawny and muscular with long blond hair and eyes that are a cloudless sky I cannot look into. _Can't trust, don't trust, won't trust._ That has been my mantra, on repeat for a thousand years. _Can't trust, don't trust, won't…_

"Hey, you," the man says.

The wagon trembles at the sound of his voice. So do I.

Him: "You were trying to cross the border, right?"

Me:

"Walked right into the Imperial ambush," he says. "Same as us. And that thief over there."

Now my attention is on a man with slick auburn hair stopping at his neck, and a widow's peak that travels to his nose and back. Muscular, but at the same time, scrawny. Birdish. He is a Nord, much like the one speaking. Much like me.

It hurts looking at him, so my eyes go to the snow. Imperial ambush or not, they would have gotten me sooner or later. Me, or my body. I can imagine the twisted faces of my parents, distorted with sadness and streaked with tears. My mother with somber brown eyes and my father with a small head in big hands. My sisters, grieving, feeling sorry.

And me, headless, wearing a blood stained wedding dress with my hands behind my back. I see my head detached at the block, and my mouth in a hard, straight line, my eyes black and soulless, my skin scarred, my face rotting, my humanity gone and my life all to ashes. I will be dead within the hour. And there is not a thing I can do about it.

A tear comes free. But I know I never will.

"Damn you, Stormcloaks!" the Thief says.

His words blur in my head, but I struggle to distract myself. I concentrate, and his voice becomes clear.

The Thief: "Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."

He looks at me, and I see that his face is shadowed with dirt, but glistening with sweat. Eyes rimmed dark, but lips a pale white. Prison rags, he wears, ripped and frayed at the sleeves, hands bound by thick rope on his lap. He has a face unmemorable, but his fingers are built for what he does. He is a lockpick, a pickpocket, a conman. Maybe even an archer. And now he is speaking with me.

"You there," he beckons.

I make no change in position, no alteration in expression. I stare into his eyes, trying to determine the color, but at the same time, I stare straight through him. He wears the face of a snake, and my mind says he hisses. _Ssssss._

Him: "You and me. We shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Diplomatic speechcraft, persuasive talk, ways to convince me. He is well practiced in getting men on his side. _Can't trust, don't trust, won't trust._ Eyes are earthy, maybe green or brown. _Can't trust, don't trust, won't trust._ He is trying to hide it, but he looks scared. _Can't trust…_

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, _thief_ ," says the first man.

From the side, he looks like my father. Blond hair that is oily, but stretches a little past his neck, and a matching beard and mustache to go with it. His face is dirty too - dirty, but hardened. He has seen the world, or at least the bad parts of it. And his armor is blue, trimmed with brown, a uniform I'd recognize - something for the Stormcloak Rebellion. _It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants…_

Another voice resonates from beside me.

Man Hunched Over in Cloak by My Side: "Shut up back there!"

The Thief looks at the Stormcloak in question as I stare to my feet. Man Hunched Over in Cloak by My Side is opposing, so I'm thankful he wasn't talking to me.

The Thief purses his lips and says, "What's wrong with _him_?"

I wonder the same thing, but no one really cares about that.

"Watch your tongue!" the Stormcloak says. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!"

"Ulfric?" The Thief looks surprised. "The Jarl of Windhelm?" His gaze shifts to Man Hunched Over. "You're the leader of the Rebellion. And if they captured you…" He quakes like the wagon. "Oh gods! Where are they taking us?"

In a grave voice, the Stormcloak: "I don't know where we're going… but Sovngarde awaits."

In an out of consciousness, I can feel myself go out.

I'm only gone for a moment or two. I think it's the sun that wakes me up.

A chill lingers in the air, but the warm rays dance along my skin, clinging to arms and legs like this dress clings to my chest.

When I realize that I fainted, I become scared, and wish to slip again. Wish to swoon. But I know that I am going to die now, know it more vehemently than I did before. Visions of the executioner's axe replay in my head, songs of Sovngarde serve as chimes in the background. That is where they go when they die in this life. They… not me. Sinners go to Oblivion. I will go nowhere.

The mist fades out a little; the sky is no longer one shade of grey. There are clouds, low and high, and I can see the blue between them, like a soft sliver of hope, just for someone like me.

The Man Hunched Over is the leader of one of the biggest rebellions our land has ever seen. The Stormcloak across from me, and others in the same uniform, are his supporters. If he has been captured, there is no way those on his side will survive. The Empire is relentless. They will be hunted down and slaughtered, heads rolling one by one until there is not a single rebel in all of Skyrim left to speak of.

If we are traveling the same road as Ulfric Stormcloak, The Man Hunched Over, we are bound for the block. The Thief trembles for this reason. And so do I.

"General Tullius, sir!"

I look to my left to see a man in a helmet driving the wagon, shouting to what seems like the cart ahead of us. He wears the uniform of the Imperial army: a silver studded back over a leather suit of armor with red sleeves underneath.

I'd recognize these uniforms anywhere; a mass of them were the first thing I saw when I woke up in a pool of my own blood. Sleeves red, stained like my hands. Leather brown, slick like the mud. Studs silver, glistening like my dagger. Eyes black, soulless and critical. Red, brown, silver, black; red, brown, silver, black. _Can't trust, don't trust…_

The Imperial: "The headsman is waiting!"

The Thief shivers.

I breathe.

Someone I believe to be General Tullius says, "Good," but I cannot tell where his voice is coming from.

Not from the wagon in front; there are more Stormcloaks tied back there. Three or four of them, to be exact, and one of them, with long, mahogany hair and shiny pale skin, is a woman, like me. I wait for her to meet my gaze, but she stares ahead with the rest of them. I keep breathing.

General Tullius: "Let's get this over with."

The Thief rocks back and forth; he is cracking.

I breathe; I am nothing.

The Thief: "Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh! Divines, please help me!"

But the Divines do not help horse thieves.

We are now entering a settlement, one with wooden houses with straw roofs, horses and wagons and families of bystanders, and imprisoning stone walls that brace us to our wrongdoings. The blood red flag of the Empire flies in the wind, twists itself around a log post, and I try to keep breathing.

It may be my last chance.

"Look at him," the Stormcloak spits. He is staring daggers at someone in the wagon behind us. I follow his eyes, a cloudless sky, but only see another Imperial on an auburn horse, no wagon at all. "General Tullius, the Military Governor."

We turn a corner, and a riding man behind the Imperial comes into view. He looks to be of higher rank than the ones in leather, red, and studs, with silvery white hair that almost glimmers in the hazy sun. Surrounding him are elves on horseback: the Thalmor, number one enemy to the Skyrim way of life. Their golden armor shines like the General's hair. Pompous, arrogant, he appears. The Stormcloak seems to think the same.

"And it looks like the Thalmor are with him," the Stormcloak says. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

All I want is to be home.

"This is Helgen." He keeps talking. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." Sighs. "Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

It's hard to think about human things anymore.

But it's so hard not to.

A father coaxes his son, "You need to go inside, little cub."

The boy whines back, "But I want to watch the soldiers!"

I would have been the same way.

"Inside the house," the man says. "Now."

I close my eyes.

Another voice cuts through the murmurs of townsfolk. This one is louder, more zealous, more like mine. "Get these prisoners out of the carts!" a woman says. I do not know where her voice is coming from. "Move it!"

The wagon slowly shakes to a stop. _Bump, bump, bump._ Like the beating of my heart. I try to breathe, but nothing comes out.

The Thief: "Why are we stopping?"

I imagine his eyes to be wide and crazy, and he drips of sweat; mine are closed, and I am cold.

The Stormcloak: "Why do you think?" (His voice is not condescending.) "End of the line."

Soon, we stop with a final bounce, and I look around to see we are surrounded by stone walls and a tower, black Imperial flags with the symbol of the Empire in blood red, and soldiers. Many, many soldiers. Some are bound by the wrists and in liberty blue. And others are smirking, clad in leather and spiced wine crimson. And then there is me, wearing my tight, ripped wedding gown, and The Thief in his mud poisoned prison rags.

We are out of place.

We shouldn't be here.

But we are.

My eyes move to the Stormcloak. "Let's go," he says, using that familiar grave voice. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting."

I feel like screaming at him. He is a quitter. He speaks morbidly. I know the same fate as him, but I say nothing. Nords do not die like this. And by the Divines, I will not.

I stand, but my legs buckle.

I stand again, and I can walk.

The Thief: "No, wait! We're not rebels!"

We are walking out of the wagon. My stomach tightens.

My cheeks are scarred; they burn. The blood clings to them; the skin is tight. You could rip it like an old cloth, red and frayed and worthless and unwanted. There is a cut on one, and another on my throat. The former is deep; the latter is shallow. I was lucky. The one who did it was not.

Dizziness washes over me. But The Stormcloak's voice wakes me up.

"Face your death with some courage, thief."

I wish to snort at that.

The Thief, out of the wagon, turns and looks at me. His eyes are just as crazy and just as wide as I imagined, a foresty shade of a sky reaching pine, now glowing with uninhibited green. Lips still pale and face still wet, he pleads to me, "You've got to tell them!" He looks to The Man (No Longer) Hunched Over by his side. "We weren't with you!" he says. "This is a mistake!"

I hop out of the cart, narrowly landing on my feet. Shoeless, the stone cuts my toes.

I stand behind Ulfric and the Thief, but I am looking at a tall Nord man in standard Imperial clothes holding a wooden tablet and quill, with a Nord woman, higher in rank, standing firm at his left. She is oddly short for a Nord, but her gaze is locked tight to mine, and she is imposing. I bet she was the one shouting at us earlier; she looks to have that kind of voice.

My toes curl, and I can see my blood on the path.

"Step toward the block when we call your name," she says. "One at a time!"

Same woman.

The Stormcloak groans from beside me. "The Empire loves their damn lists."

I don't know what to say.

The Empire Serving Nord (it doesn't feel right to call him an Imperial) With the List takes a quick note on the tablet and his attention meets the cloaked man in front of me. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he says. I can hear the contempt behind his voice. "Jarl of Windhelm."

Ulfric stands tall, and walks out of my sight. I don't bother looking at the block.

The Stormcloak stares at his boots. "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

Something about this makes me sick.

 _Next._

Empire Serving Nord With the List: "Ralof of Riverwood."

He sounds pained, but he takes another note.

The Stormcloak, Ralof, leaves my side, bound for the block. He passes the one with the list, and they exchange scowls; they must know each other. My eyes close.

 _Next._

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

The Thief approaches List Man and Loud Woman. "No!" he says. "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

They say nothing, so he sprints.

For a man with tied hands, he is fast. I am bigger, therefore I am slow. I need my arms as momentum. But he is quick, just like I thought he would be. He knows to evade. He is a coward, but that is the way his kind should be. Wary. _Can't trust, don't trust, won't trust._ "You're not going to kill me!" he says. _Hokey._ But I want him to get away. I pray, I plead, I wish, I hope.

But he does not.

"Archers!" says the woman.

 _Archers._

He is shot down before he can reach the gate. One arrow, two arrows, three arrows, all in the back. I cannot see, but I imagine blood pooling on his skin, just like blood pools in my heart. I am sad that he is dead. But I feel no sympathy for the chicken hearted. I wonder if he is going to Sovngarde. _No._

"Anyone else feel like running?" says Loud Woman.

 _No thank you._

All I ask is a chance to breathe. But that is a chance I do not get.

"Wait." List Man looks at me. I am alone. "You there. Step forward."

I am weightless, mindless, heartless, nothing. I go where my feet take me; I crunch my skin on the path. I leave a trail of blood behind, but I feel no pain. I haven't breathed in what seems like hours.

 _If I am dead, I do not know it._

"Who" - there is a pause - "are you?"

I want to close my eyes, but I cannot.

"Astrid," I say. "Cold-Dagger." My name feels foreign in my own mouth. "Astrid Cold-Dagger."

He takes a note on his list; this one is longer than the others. Closer, I realize that it isn't a tablet he's holding. Rather, it is a book. A thick book, one that I imagine has many names. Many dead Stormcloaks. Many thieves who tried to run. And now, a killer in a muddy wedding frock. He looks as if he feels bad for me. I do not.

"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman," says he.

Nords are the native race of this land. But I am not one of its native people. I am from Cyrodiil. And I wish to be there again. _Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh… Divines, please help me…_

"Captain," he says, looking toward Loud Woman. "What should we do? She's not on the list."

"Forget the list," says _Captain_ Loud Woman. "She goes to the block."

 _Ironic._

Not arrested for murder, arrested for being in the area. Not arrested for what I did, arrested for something fabricated. Sentenced for something fabricated, equalling the sentence of murder. That must have been it. The Imperials raided; I was in their way; they threw me in their prison cart, (I use this phrase again) bound for the block.

I will not be punished for what I did. I will die for something stupid. They do not know my real crimes; they did not record that.

I will die because of a coincidence, because of situational irony. Not because I robbed a woman and killed her with my own voice. But because the Empire found me sleeping in a cave, choking on my own tears, and sentenced me to death because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. They don't even realize who I am. What I did. What I got away with.

But I die anyway.

List Man looks intently at Captain Loud Woman. "By your orders, Captain?"

She nods.

"I'm sorry," says List Man. "At least you'll die here, in your homeland."

But this is no home for someone like me.

"Follow the Captain, prisoner," he says.

Captain Loud Woman walks away, and for a moment, I am only staring at List Man. He doesn't look very old, and I can tell he identifies with me. I want to feel spite, but he would save me if he could. I bet he has seen hundreds die. And I bet he has wanted to help even more. Many beheaded enemies, and many killed friends in the line of battle. I have never seen someone die until yesterday. But I can know that by the way his jaw is always clenched, and the way his brows are always narrowed, and the way his eyes are always sad, he has seen many more than me.

I don't want to follow the Captain, but I must, and I do. And although bitter, it is satisfying. Because I have always wanted to die for a purpose. And as silly as it is, maybe I am dying for Lokir, the Thief. And maybe I'm dying for Ralof, the Stormcloak, or even the man with the list.

I am happy dying for these men, even if one has already gone for himself. And mayhaps someday, somewhere, if they ever get the chance, someone wouldn't mind dying for me.

I follow Captain Loud Woman into a circle of people: mostly Stormcloaks, both men and women alike. We stand at the base of a stone tower, guarded by Imperial soldiers and their flags, even bigger than they were when we got off the wagon. A pale woman in faded orange priestess robes stands by a tall man with an axe, and soon I am standing near The Man (No Longer) Hunched Over himself, Ulfric Stormcloak.

General Tullius, with his shiny white hair and even shinier gold chestplate, stands across from us. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he says. (It must be innate for Imperials to say his name with contempt.) "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to _murder his king_ and _usurp his throne_."

There is a gag over his mouth, so all I can hear is muffled noise. I bet he is muttering expletives.

General Tullius: "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to _put you down_ , and restore the peace."

Stormcloaks vs. Imperials is a good distraction from imminent doom (pick a side!), but I am almost immediately interrupted by a shrill, unfamiliar noise from the background. From… the sky.

It is a roar, like that of an animal. Some kind of shriek, maybe someone being attacked. But it is all encompassing; it takes up the air we breathe; it fills our lungs like a deep inhalation. It is loud, but not deafening. It would be if we were up close, but it's more of a sensation, like we can feel it inside of us. Shouting, calling, prompting. It's argumentative, taunting. It's…

Gone. In a matter of a few seconds or two. But it's like a blow to the head. It only lasts a second, but you can feel it. Reverberating. In and out of consciousness, I'm still here. But I feel… summoned. And I don't know why.

List Man (who is no longer holding a list) is beside the block. He heard it, too. "What" - there is a pause - "was that?"

General Tullius says it's nothing. "Carry on."

I take a moment to look at the sky. Same as it was before, but maybe a little darker. _Deeper._ The mountains observe silently in the background. I wish I was with them.

"Yes, General Tullius!" says Captain Loud Woman. She turns to the Breton lady in robes. "Give them their last rites."

The Priestess: "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved…"

A Stormcloak with bright red hair approaches the block. "For the love of Talos," he says. "Shut up, and let's get this over with."

Priestess (haughtily): "As you wish."

He stands toward his death, looking down upon the blood stains that match his slicked back hair. It is an odd kind of color for a Nord, and if it wasn't for his build and uniform, he could easily pass as a Breton. It's sort of funny, I think, because I myself could pass for an Imperial with my dark, almost kinky brown hair, and at the same time, they're the ones who are trying to kill me.

Funny, but I don't laugh.

"Come on!" prompts the red-head. "I don't have all morning!"

Captain Loud Woman pushes him to his knees.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," he says. "Can you say the same?"

He rests his head on the block. The executioner, a Redguard, big in size, lifts his axe. In the light, its ebony shade glistens, like stars in a black sky, but my stomach churns as I see the blood glow. The blade is painted in ruby, colored on either side. I can imagine my eyes reflecting in the scarlet, and I feel a push from within me.

I can't breathe.

He dies instantly, and the Captain kicks his body away. Like he is nothing but a toy. A plaything. A hunted animal. Something unneeded. My heart burns for him. I shed a tear, and it is hot.

My hand shakes too much to wipe it away.

"You Imperial bastards!"

The shout comes from my left. It's the mahogany haired woman from the cart in front. She still won't meet my gaze, but I can tell that she is beautiful, far more beautiful than me. And as I shed another tear, I hope that I can die for her, too.

"Next!" shouts Captain Loud Woman.

 _Next._

I want very much to duck behind someone, to shield my face from the hungry eyes of Captain Loudmouth. I want to disappear into the background, and go completely unnoticed. Forgotten. Not on the list, not in the circle, not in the world. Nowhere. It would be easier to go blind, to go deaf, to make peace, to leave on my own terms. To kill myself by watching this, again and again. To feel my ribs crush my chest, to be pushed to the ground by the force of my own reflection.

But if I will die, then I will die right now. At this very moment. At the blade of an ebony axe, with my head on a block that has seen the death of hundreds before me, that is the way I will go. And if I have any say in it left, any chance to control my own destiny, this is when.

I step forward. Meet her eyes.

"Next," she says again. "The Nord in the rags!"

Said Nord in rags is about to approach the block when she feels that same sound she felt before.

Everyone looks skyward.

A roar, a shriek. A force, a push. It is closer, drawing near. Only a little louder, but a lot more shrill. Vehemence, zeal. I can taste metal in my mouth, feel a tightness in my chest, like something trapped inside of me wants to come free. I have felt this before, this urgent desire, but I cannot place when. A time when I have been suffocating, a time that I've been trapped.

I remember where this comes from, and my eyes slam shut.

I don't breathe until it's over. I am afraid of what will happen if I do. The sound leaves us, but the feeling takes a moment to dissipate, like the tension is leaving my body, but the sensation lingers, like a part of the air. I take it in with each breath, and let it out warily with every tentative exhale.

My last thought will be a question.

 _What has become of me?_

"There it is again," says the List Man. He looks to Loud Woman. "Did you hear that?"

The Captain doesn't care. "I said, next prisoner!"

List Man meets my eyes. "To the block, prisoner," he says. "Nice and easy."

My steps to the block are ones that I do not remember, but I stand facing my death, seconds before I am pushed to my knees. And in those seconds, I find myself staring at the List Man across from me, and, although it is not my place to ask, I wish to know his name, something more real and personal than List Man, when he isn't even holding a list anymore. I don't know this person, and it isn't that I necessarily _want_ to know this person, but what I really want is a human connection. Anything. A friend. Someone to grasp for in the dark.

And, although it is odd, I can see that in him. He looks like a loyal person, someone to trust. His hair is light brown and extends past his neck, and he is strong - very strong, very tall. A hair strand sticks in his eyes, and they are too small for me to notice the color, but I can see kinship in them. We are not friends. He does not know me. I do not know him. But he is one of those people that makes you think you have known each other since childhood, just in the way he looks at you.

And I know that I cannot, do not, and will not trust him.

But I can and will die with faith.

I give him a smile and fall to my knees, and my head is pushed to the block.

My cheek is cold against the stone, wet against the blood, and I look up to the executioner. His axe is not ebony. It is cheap. But it shines with vermillion, and I can see my eyes looking back at me.

 _Pale._

I feel that noise again, and at first I think I am tricking myself.

But then, just beyond the watchtower, my head cradled in a pool of what will soon be my own blood, I finally find the source of the infernal sound.

General Tullius shouts from behind, "What in Oblivion is that?"

Captain Loudmouth: "Sentries, what do you see?"

Another voice: "It's in the clouds!"

I see it, I see it, I see it. I want to run, I want to get up, I want to fight. But all I see are its eyes, its fluorescing red eyes, with silver in the center that may as well be pale blue, and I feel a push on my chest, a pain, a tremor in my heart, and I can't, cannot cannot cannot, get up. It lands on the tower, and the headsman stumbles to his knees, and I don't even realize that I have once again narrowly escaped death, because for all I know, I'm trading one quick execution for another, far more painful one.

I want to scream what it is. I want to. I want to shout; I want to use my Voice. I want to do _something._ But I can't move. I can't say it. I can't say what it is. I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared; I'm so scared for my life. _Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh…_

"Dragon!" a woman shouts. It's the beautiful one with mahogany hair; I recognize her voice. "Dragon!"

The Redguard executioner comes to his feet, facing the beast across from us. He raises his axe in a fighting stance, but the dragon curls its lip into what appears to be a smirk, and exhales.

It is shouting, screaming, wailing at us. The air is pushed, the clouds are moved. It is shoving us with its voice, breathing force instead of fire, breaking bones with a word and knocking the headsman off his feet.

The sky becomes dark grey mixed with light purple, with shades of white bursting in between. The clouds are moving, swirling, violently dancing to the beat of the dragon's savage song, and here I am, laying, thinking, screaming with no sound, _quitting._

It shouts purple, white, grey, yellow, _force_ , and here I am, _giving up._

General Tullius to his men: "Don't just stand there! Kill that thing!"

I have to get up.

"Guards, get the townspeople to safety!"

I use the block to help me stand.

Another voice: "It's still coming!"

I'm on my feet, but my back hunches over.

"Hey, kinsman!"

I hear a voice that I recognize.

"Get up!"

It is Ralof, the Stormcloak.

"Come on!"

He is talking to me.

"The gods won't give us another chance!"

I am dying. It is obvious. I starve, I ache, I feel as if my insides are being ripped out of my abdomen, my head is dizzy, and my extremities are on fire. No food in days, using snow as my water, exposed to the elements in nothing but a fur and a wedding dress that could pass me as a low rate brothel girl any day of the week. If this does not kill me, my own body will.

Every step makes me spin. My vision is blurred at the corners, and I can barely breathe. The air is heavy, thick with the screams of a beast I only believed to be a fairytale, and I feel a tug at every corner of my heart for which way to go.

I look up to see that Ralof, only a streak of blue and blonde in a hazy stream of stone walls, burning watchtowers, and boulders ablaze falling from what appears to be the sky, is running toward the only tower intact, and I know that is the singular place I will be safe to go.

The ground shakes; everything is burning. I feel the dragon shouts echo within me. _Force. Flames. Darkness. Light. Power. Resistance._ They scream resonance, shriek pain.

I feel them, and they hurt.

"In here!" says Ralof, and I follow him inside.

We enter a watchtower inhabited by several uniformed Stormcloaks. Two are on the ground in front of me, surrounded by their own blood. One writhes in pain; the other, the woman, is tended by a silvery blond man, and clutches her leg. I fear that they will die. I wish there was time to heal them.

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof says.

I glance to my left to see a tall Nord in a cloak beside me. It is The Man (No Longer) Hunched Over, who seemed to escape his own death just like me. He is just as imposing as on the wagon: a very large man with wild golden hair and pale eyes like mine. _Handsome._ I want to say hello, but I know I probably should not. _Don't trust._

Ralof: "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

Ulfric, gravely: "Legends don't burn down villages."

I feel another shout; the ground shakes in response.

"We need to move," says Ulfric. "Now!"

Ralof backs up toward the staircase. "Up through the tower. Let's go!"

They let me go first, so I stumble up the stones until I am winded and close to the top.

Stormcloak soldiers are pushing away boulders that block the rest of the stairs (one of them says, "We just need to move some of these rocks to clear the way"), helping each other toss them away one by one like clockwork. Looks tedious, so I am about to lend a hand when a colossal, black head comes bursting through the side of the tower, screaming fire like the folklore dragons do.

" _Yol,_ " it says.

It sounds like it is saying ' _yol_ ' _._

" _Toor…_ "

Bright, hot flames spray from an open mouth.

" _Shul!_ "

The soldiers are killed. I almost die with them. The dragon flies to another tower, and I run to the hole it created, a giant window overlooking a chaotic Helgen keep. I stare in fear.

Ralof appears at my right. "See the inn on the other side?" He points somewhere, but there is too much smoke to see. _No, I do not see it._ "Jump through the roof and keep going!"

Smoke clears within seconds, and I find it. But I do not like heights, I do not like jumping, and I am scared. I try to speak, but my voice sounds different. Like it isn't even mine. I look to the inn, then back at Ralof. "What about you?" I ask. _What about me?_ "I…"

 _I don't know what to say._

"Go!" he says. He can tell I am afraid. Ulfric is behind him. He stares with disdain. "We'll follow when we can!"

I imagine the Thief running. Getting shot down. I imagine cowards. The chicken hearted. As my father says, 'milk drinkers'. I picture myself being burnt alive, being shouted against a wall. I see my throat slit; I see my scarred cheeks; I see my head roll. I see myself dead, and I am afraid to, but I breathe.

Breathe because I will not die jumping.

I will not let myself.

I back up and sprint. I can't use my arms as momentum, but I sprint anyway, and feel my legs come off the ground. I am flying, flying, flying; I'd stretch my wings if I could. I don't know how to land, but I'll worry about that later. Seconds are hours. I am airborne.

I am free.

I land on my feet, but I fall. My legs burn. I don't know what I did, but I did something, and it hurts. Badly. I try to stand, but I need my hands to pull myself up. They are tied behind my back, and my left leg is trapped under my right one like a folded pastry, twisted in a way no legs should be. I have to do something, so I carefully stretch my legs and lay on my back. The world is already spinning.

I lean up into a sitting position, and survey my lower extremities. They are muddy and scraped and unnaturally pale, but no bones seem out of place. I half expect to see my left foot turned sideways, or the bone jutting out. Looks normal, I decide, even if it hurts.

It takes a few tries, a few moments of bracing myself, but I am able to stand up, limping with the weight on my right foot. My left is screaming; it is damaged: may be an ankle sprain, a fractured bone, something painful. Something I do not like.

I walk amongst empty beds and burning barrels to the end of the room where I see that I must jump again, but it is far shorter than the one I just endured. I want to limp around for awhile and see if I can find stairs, but the smarter part of me says that the dumber part of me is wrong; 'limping around for awhile' is foolish, and I could get myself hurt, or worse. I am on the second floor, and I must get to the first to escape. That is all there is to it.

I have to land smartly. It will hurt, but I must land on my feet, supporting myself with my right foot. And I don't know how I did it, but I fell one time while I was hunting back home, and I didn't hurt myself, not at all. I think I bent my knees, but I know I didn't roll; I used my hands to stop myself from falling over. So much for that.

I jump (although it is more like a hop) and scream. Landed on my feet and bent my knees, but I am not coordinated enough to brace myself with my right leg. My left ankle _burns burns burns_ and my tears are _fire fire fire_ , so much that I feel like quitting, even if I know I cannot.

I feel like I'll die here.

But I'm not dead yet, so I smile.

I limp as fast as I can out of the inn; the door is right by where I fell. I hear the List Man's voice, shouting at someone, telling them to come here. I don't know where he is, and I wonder if I should bother searching, but then I see him, sword drawn, and I am relieved.

He is yelling at a kid by a body at the end of the road. The kid is crying.

I am, too.

List Man: "Haming, you need to get over here. Now!"

A boy with a dark red shirt and darker brown hair comes running toward us, and then past.

"That a boy," says the List Man. "You're doing great."

A shadow of a dragon glides over the cobblestone, and soon, a gargantuan black form comes into view. The ground shakes; dirt and pebbles fly. We are face to face; its eyes are glowing; its horns are daggers.

 _Startled, but not scared._

"Gods…" mutters the List Man. He is startled, too. "Everyone, get back!"

I look down the road at the body by the dragon's claws. It is a man - an older man - wearing hide armor with dark brown hair. The boy's father, I guarantee, and my next two tears are shed for them.

The dragon screams; more fire.

I follow the List Man; more safe.

"Still alive, prisoner?" he says. "Stay close to me if you want to stay that way."

We join the boy and a bald man in iron armor, crouching in a corner by some snowcapped rocks. _Cold._

List Man looks at Bald Man. "Gunnar," he beckons. "Take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

Bald Man (in a deep voice with a thick Nord accent): "Gods guide you, Hadvar."

The List Man takes off running when he sees the dragon has flown to another part of the settlement. I follow behind, keeping close, although he is fast - a really fast runner, surprising because he is so big - and I am very slow while limping.

My chest burns; I am not a sprinter. My feet do the same; my left aches and my right is faltering. He looks back at me once and slows a little, allowing me to match his pace. I do not.

It's too much.

We turn a corner, and Hadvar, the List Man, tells me to stay close to the wall. _Which wall?_ I do not know. I just follow him.

Another corner, and the dragon has landed on a building overlooking us. I do not bother glancing at it; I know what I'll see when I do. I hobble up wooden stairs, tripping on the third step, and Hadvar is far past the next turn. I am alone, and not on my feet, laying limp on my stomach on a set of old planks, and I don't know what to do.

The dragon rains fire at me, but I do not ignite. I feel hot; I blaze on the inside. My dress is not flaming; my hair is not burning. My insides are inflamed; my soul is a bonfire that I cannot put out. I scream, I writhe, I cry, but nothing works. I am being killed. I am suffocating on the smoke, burned alive from the inside. _I don't know what to do._

But then I feel something propel within me - something outside, something foreign - and I am quickly pushed to my feet. I do not know how I stand, but I do. And I still must limp, but I am standing, and I pull myself up the next three stairs in one long stride, favoring my right leg. I was pushed up somehow; someone helped me regain balance. I don't know what, but something did.

I did not do that on my own.

I limp faster; I turn a corner. I see wounded Imperials, much like the Stormcloaks in the watchtower, and soldiers fighting the airborne dragon, stuck on the ground. A mage woman in hooded Imperial armor shoots fireballs at the bringer of fire itself. Archers take aim and shoot. I stand aimlessly and think of the Thief.

General Tullius is shouting at Hadvar, who looks to have made it a little before me.

"Into the keep, soldier!" says the General. "We're leaving!"

Hadvar sprints, or at least he tries to, but I can tell he is out of breath. Tullius and company run past the injured (they are out of good luck) and turn a corner; I wonder why they don't try the front gate right here.

Blood stains the cobblestone; wood buildings burn. I can feel the smoke in my lungs, and I cough. I will collapse if I don't stop here.

But by the Divines, I cannot.

Hadvar: "It's you and me, prisoner. Stay close!"

We are taking up the rear. I can hardly see the General ahead.

Tullius to Hadvar: "Run, you idiot!"

I want to say that he is trying. But now he is tired, and he's almost as slow as me.

An Imperial archer has his eyes locked skyward. "How in Oblivion do we kill this thing?"

A soldier darts past us. "How does it move so fast?"

Someone screams. I wish to cover my ears.

I limp under a stone archway, while Hadvar jogs a few steps ahead. I cannot see the General, I cannot see the soldiers, and I cannot see anything alive. The smoke stings my eyes; I imagine them to be red. A bush is ignited to my right; dark clouds billow at my left. An ominous black shadow with jagged wings and jutting horns hangs above the path, and my breath ceases.

It is the dragon.

But soon, it transcends us.

I am about to ask for a respite, to catch my breath if only for a second, when a familiar pale face shaped by wavy blond hair comes into view: it is Ralof, waraxe drawn, staring those shiney azure daggers at the end of the path, and I want to be ashamed for being seen with the same man who signed our own death warrants, but shameful, I am not.

 _No sir._

Hadvar (not amused; sword unsheathed): "Ralof! You damned traitor! Out of my way!"

Ralof (very sober; obviously feels resentment): "We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time!"

"Fine," says (Formerly) List Man. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

Ralof hurries past us, heading toward a watchtower (there seem to be many in this place). "You!" he says. He is waving for me. Toward the door. My eyes get wide. "Come on! Into the keep!"

I want to, I do. I really want to. Ralof saved my life; I wouldn't be here if he hadn't called for me at the block. But I have a limp, and there are many Imperials here. I have spotted a few more archers (surprised they are alive with how they stand so exposed) by the wall. They could shoot me if I joined him. I am slow; I cannot evade. I am not agile like the Thief. If he died at the hands of Imperial bowmen, what would become of me?

But I do not know where else to go; I cannot betray my friend. What if he were hurt, and I wasn't there? 'Those who are caught together, play together'; that's something my younger sister once said. Ralof - the Stormcloak - and I were sentenced to death on the same wagon to the same place on the same day. Should we not remain allies? But Ralof is a criminal to the Empire. The Empire has kept my home country safe. I told myself that I can't trust. I told myself that I don't trust. I told myself that…

I feel a tug at my arm.

"With me, prisoner!"

It is Hadvar.

"Let's go!"

I give Ralof one last glance.

I hate myself for crying, but I shed a final tear and follow the Imperial.


	2. Chapter II (Speaking with Silence)

PALE

CHAPTER II

SPEAKING WITH SILENCE

{MARCELLUS'S POV}

I'm existing in a room where all I can see is a future untraceable, and I come up with a philosophy that is worth stating formally:

 _Everything begins where everything ends._

It sounds deep, but it's really not much of a stretch.

When you leave someplace, it's usually because you're going somewhere else. When you leave some _body_ , you start your new life without them. When the day ends, the night picks up. Or when you close out a paragraph, you see another one underneath it.

It's really like stripes. White space ends. Black begins. Black space ends...

I'll say it again: _everything begins where everything ends._

It's worth repeating.

And I mean _everything_.

It all begins just so it can end. Ends just so it can begin again.

(You get it yet?)

We're born to die. We perish because we live. It's common knowledge.

Just like what we disdain. Nobody hates things just to hate. They hate because they want something better.

They want an 'end', so they can get a 'begin'.

And I'm one of those people.

You'd say I have a death wish. Most people do. And around most people, I spit. But here, I'll say no. I _don't_ have a death wish. I have a _life_ wish. A new life wish. One that starts off someplace else as soon as this one flickers off.

I am a risk taker who doesn't take risks.

I kill myself everyday. I walk the line between life and death. I stand at the edge of Oblivion and carelessly hop on the verge of the damned like it's _nothing_.

You see me as a warrior. It's almost comical, because that's exactly how I'd picture me, too. Some tortured, fighting soul whose nurturing family was slaughtered in a likely "Imperial" raid and had to watch his beautiful, limitless life shatter to conveniently fixable pieces at age four.

You picture me going on in some brooding inner monologue, silently weeping in the emotional hovel I created for myself:

"Their bloody heads rolled," I narrate. "But I single handedly killed a smirking soldier with my bare, toddler hands as the guts of my loving sister stained the hardwood floor in a gelatinous pile of crimson goo," you imagine.

"I could save the town" - the soliloquy continues - "but not my parents, so I forever walk this earth blaming myself for their tragic death, hating every aspect of my awful but noble personality because of it. I'm incredibly skilled and handsome (but I don't own a mirror and have no idea), and women flock to me as if I am fine jewelry (although I have the fine part down), yet I refuse their advances because I am emotionally unavailable and can't see the good within myself," you see me saying.

You think me as _this_ guy. Right?

Well, I'm not.

I'm handsome. I know that.

I'm skilled. I know that.

I'm cunning. I know that better than anyone.

I'm a bad guy. But yet, there have been worse.

I do not hide any secret noble ambition. My ambition is what it is.

I don't mope about the things I think I am, because I know very well _who_ I am - liar, cheat, addict, killer, I get it - and I don't blame myself for things I can't change.

So, sad life. Bad guy. Not a Daedra. Not a Vigilant. I'm a sob story to some. Hated by others. Some think I'm good. Some think I'm bad. Depends on the lighting.

But, right now, I'm just an ending who began somewhere. And I'm not sure where, but I know the place I'm at now is very dark literally, but very light figuratively. This is a place where I'm a tortured soul. But, I find my soul undergoing a striking lack of torture at the moment for a name like that, so now, I'm just a guy who can't see anything.

Literally. It's pitch in here.

And that's kinda like my life right now.

I reach under my mattress and feel it. There's a bottle of my messed up future against my skin at the moment. _Cold, glassy_. Won't be there for long if I decide I need a pick-me-up.

Er, backpedal.

I always need a pick-me-up.

Nowadays, at least. But the bottle is for the special kind of pick-me-up that I crave when I'm extra desperate, where I'll even take passing out unconscious over listening to the sound of my own breathing any longer. That used to be my favorite pastime; dying while staying alive. But being clean with exceptions, I still don't need it any less. Access is what's hard.

The whole market's gotten exceedingly more difficult for me to get a hold of. I think it's because I'm constantly monitored by the Jarl from sunrise to set in my own personal prison cell fit with a luxuriously screwed up mattress and furniture that wouldn't look out of place in a sewer tunnel. And while it's not literally a dungeon, it still feels like one for a man-boy who was decidedly an adult at fourteen.

So, I decide, as you're deciding at this very moment, that my life is pretty unbearable. And, if not unbearable, then just plain nonexistent (literally, my life is like the Snow Elves: absolutely extinct. _And he was so young, too!_ ). And that's why I save the messed up future drink for later. Because only Nocturne knows that I'll be needing it. (Heck, not even Nocturne. All the Divines and Daedric Princes and Jarls know that. A person like me needs his "pick-me-up".)

And on top of all this diary-like info I'm sharing in my signature inner-monologue, here's another fun-fact about Marcellus Mossmire: time is usually irrelevant to him. Not even time itself, but the whole abstract concept, as well. (Yes, I agree, I am quite three dimensional.)

And I guess you've got me figured out (which I dig; I'm pretty basic), so I can safely assume you get where I'm coming from. Time ticks fast, but I stay in the backlash, yadda, yadda, yadda. The main point here is that I figure it's about six in the morning, but I've been laying here awake for a few hours at the least, and couldn't tell you if that's a close estimate or not.

Heck, I hadn't even changed my clothes last night.

And of course, I'm blessed with the room with no torch and not a single damn window. Not even a tinted one. (No joke: I seriously think this place was a storage shack at some point. Or haunted. Not even kidding.)

Which means I inevitably have to get up and leave my room to check to see if there's gleam flowing from the skylight. And as soon as I lift from this bed, whether it's six in the day or six in the night, the Jarl's gonna expect something out of me. My "daily assignment", so to speak. (Sounds like some bullshit seven-thousand-steps-to-recovery ploy they make recovering addicts use to distract themselves. Probably is.)

But do I question it? _(Do you care?)_ No. Never. Because I'm a defiant little fetcher, but not stupid. Especially when I'm getting free room and board as long as I fight off some bandits and use my wit for a purpose now and again. And I'd never beg for acceptance, but it's nice to have it. _Real nice_.

So, that's why I get up. I'm dizzy as my feet hit the floor, probably because I jerked up too fast, but I shake it off and head through the door without tripping once. _Score one._

A few are already walking about, but the skylight's glow, an odd shade of orange, is futile, and we appear to be in the midst of a sunrise. So, whoever's walking awake here must be pretty tired, kinda like me.

 _Or_ , they're self righteous know-it-alls like Irileth, Secret-Fire, or - I cringe at the name - Delynn. Most of them like sucking up (or acting like they actually have a purpose) and they see getting up before the Nords even inhabit Skyrim as some jump-start on their pointless rise to glory. _Like it even matters._

But what does matter is this: the Jarl's up and about. Which, bad enough for me, means that I have no excuse not to collect my assignment about now.

 _Great._

 _Dragonsreach._ That's where I live. Also known as the center of the city of Whiterun, or the Cloud District, for reasons you can probably guess. It's an old building (obviously) created to resemble ancient Nord longhouses from back in the day (you know, when I wasn't alive to actually care), and apparently they imprisoned a dragon in here. Like, a _live_ dragon. One that was breathing and everything. Hence the name.

 _Bullshit_ is all I can say.

It's not even worth thinking about when I have important things to do.

I'm trying to edge past this open doorway now to get to the stairs, since I see Delynn - made pretty obvious by her fiery mop of red orange hair - conversing with her uncle Thaddeus over some tea or whatever that is (probably a frenzy potion, knowing the mood she's always in), but she hasn't seen me yet, so I turn my head a little, hoping she won't recognize my slightly tilted profile if she looks my way. But, knowing her, she'll catch me like Ataxia in a matter of a second or two. She's just _that_ in love with me.

I'm getting near the stairs now. Kind of on a balcony of sorts overlooking the ground floor of Dragonsreach, with a large fire pit and feast table in the middle. (Very castle-like, very Imperial.)

By the throne, the Jarl looks to be discussing something of 'great importance' - most likely about the civil war or dead dragons or something equally stupid - with his advisor (that I take absolutely no liking to, if you were wondering, or didn't already assume to begin with) at the front. And then there's me up here. Who almost made it to the stairs, but was approached by Delynn instead.

Definitely what I've been saving my "messed up future" for.

She's a super weird kind of girl.

(And _no, no,_ and _no._ Absolutely... _no_. Don't think that I'm just saying she's weird because she's 'amazing' or whatever, and I secretly like her, because I don't. My last girlfriend was tall and blonde and almost life threatening in her good looks. A _woman_. But Delynn is like a child. From the inside and out. And, even worse, she's a mage. A _mage._ Can it get any worse?)

"Hello there!" she says, walking faster to match my speed.

She has short legs, so I'm sure I could outrun her, but I'm trying a change of pace today and feel like being nice.

I slow a little and walk beside her.

I don't feel any different.

She smiles.

"I have an idea."

 _Score negative one._

It's the point in the conversation where she's trynna gauge my interest - get me to say something back. But, truth be told, I see no need to, and keep quiet.

She has an idea. _Okay_. She can tell me what it is.

But, of course, she doesn't get it. (What else is new?)

So, thanks to that, I have to say, "Okay," almost sighing-ly (if that's a thing) to get her to keep going.

Tiring business, talking to people who are slow.

She straightens a little, as if she is preparing a speech of sorts. (This is where things start to get weird - when she opens her mouth.)

"Ah, so, this may come off as sort of presumptuous," she begins, and I roll my eyes. "Or, maybe not…" She stops and places her finger on her chin in a puzzled manner. "Is presumptuous the word for that? Presumptuous…" She shakes her head. "Well, it may come off as slightly rankling, as I understand this could possibly be a sensitive topic, but…you know how...well, to simply state it, you're magic skills are slightly, ah, underdeveloped?"

 _Am I supposed to care?_

"Sure," I say.

There's really no other response.

"Well, I had just been…"

She pauses, meeting my gaze for a moment, like she's seeing if I'm still paying attention.

Which, painfully, and also unexplainably, I still am, although it takes her a second or two of creepily staring with her bulging green eyes to notice that I'm still so completely enamoured in what a _lovely_ conversation.

Being nice sucks (the life out of me).

She goes on, although a little shaken, "I had just been conversing with my uncle Thaddeus - you know my uncle Thaddeus, such a very short, stocky man with his rugged, aged appearance and almost childlike facade to go with such-"

"I know your uncle Thaddeus," I interrupt, raising my hand slightly to silence her jabber. "Is there a point to this story?" Leaning against the railing, I glance down to Jarl Balgruuf, still discoursing with his advisor, and gesture to him. "I've got some things to do for the Jarl, and I really can't be bothered with such trivial-"

She smiles. (Idiot.)

"I'm getting there," she says with a giggle. "My uncle and I were talking about your arcane skill level - or, lack of arcane skill level, for that matter - and we were thinking that you would benefit from, as you are not quite taking to my lessons so proficiently, me teaching you a thing or two about pharmaceutical-"

I already know what she's getting at, so I shake my head and raise my hand a little again, because I know that's the way to shut her up.

"I don't need you to teach me about alchemy, Delynn. It really doesn't concern-"

"Yes, yes…" She frowns. "I understand that, but you are of the Thief birthsign, am I wrong? And many Thieves take to the skill of alchemy quite proficiently if they just-"

This whole conversation is uncomfortable for me. And not just because I'm conversing with her, but because she brings up points that I'm content in not discussing. Ever, really. Especially not with the likes of her. So the only thing for me to do here is play it curt. (As always.)

I raise my palm again.

"It doesn't interest me."

"But I have seen the way you look at the alchemy labs throughout Dragonsreach. It's as if they speak to you, and I can't leave such a connection un-"

I laugh because of how stupid that sounds, and realize I don't need to lift my hand again because it's already up.

"You're like a troll," I say, smiling. Not really because she's my friend and I like teasing her, but because the statement is true, and just as funny. "Or a tax collector."

I laugh again.

"Seriously, I don't do magic. Or alchemy. Does that answer your question?"

"Well…uh…"

She looks to her feet, at a loss. Normally, I'd run off thinking she was about to plunge into another one of those stupid speeches of hers, but I also know her well enough to tell that she's done for the day. With me, at least.

So I smile, and she says to me, deflated, but still dignified, "Yes."

"Then I'll see you later."

Hopefully not.


End file.
